Idlebones

Laytown Races

September 9, 2006 – 0:09

Time to lose my shirt.

Laytown races have the proud boast to be the only (legal) beach races in Europe. From 3.30pm to 6.15 six races are held every year on the strand between Bettystown and Laytown, a distance of a mile or two. Furlongs bedamned, it looks like a long way when you have fiver on the little fella bringing up the rear.

As I grew up in Laytown the races have grown form a hodge-podge of (mostly illegal) caravans and fast food vendors parked on the beach separated by a high wire fence from the owners and betters in the race field above to the now terribly plush, huge big vid screen and TV booms of the modern event. There’s even a best dressed woman/man (and curiously, horse) competition. They have for some bizarre reason over looked me for years in this event. Next year I’m going to turn up in in a pantomime horse costume wearing a skirt and hunting jacket, just to cover all angles. That trophy WILL be mine.

I didn’t arrive until after the first race, thereby lessening my odds of a win by at least a hundred per cent. We’ve been coming here for years (hardly a trek, as it’s at the bottom of the road), with my Grandad at first, who loved to hold court from his folding chair just above the high tide mark and send my brother and sister and I scurrying up to place bets with crumpled fivers to be replaced by crisp white betting slips. I haven’t won a thing since he was last here. His knowledge of horses and form kept us in ice creams for years. Today, Mum and I are on our own.

We regard our propects like experts.

“That horse looks a bit shabby, look.”

“Terrible colours on that Jockey: purple and yellow?”

“Potent Man”? What kind of name is that?”

I go for “Kells Star” in my first attempt. The Jockey falls off on his way to the start line and is withdrawn. Good start.

We lean on the white fence bordering the riders circle, admiring the tethered animals that are paraded in front of us. Mum knows more about horses than I do, my granddad having been a bit of an expert. We can remember coming here with Grandad and enjoying his banter with the other race goers. Instead she’s stuck with me, a slightly lost and jumpy thirty-something year old in a white linen shirt , ill-advised for the purposes of standing standing in a field, who clutches to his water bottle like a new born, eyes wide and jerking, flipping from horse to horse, to girl standing beside me back to horse. And back to girl standing beside me. “A fine Filly”, says mum, eyeing number seven. I agree, looking the wrong way.

We settle on Athboy Lad for our next bet. A given, seeing as that is where my Grandads’ from, and because I haven’t being paying attention. He romps home in fifth place. We’re not too bothered at the loss of our fivers. It had to be him, a little aside to my granddad, although Grandad would have laughed at us for picking the shortest horse in the race.

The field begins to fill up as the commuter trains deposit more and more locals home. The sun has remained bright, dispite our forecasts and the tide is lingering at its outermost limits, a good quarter of a mile out as we go to the edge of the racefield overlooking the course, soon to be washed away by the turning tide. The horses appear as silent brown specks further up on the smooth russet coloured expanse of sand, the sound of their hooves carried away by the sea breeze. The crowd from the overlooking hill are shouting names in encouragement. “Go on Bella Sophie” C’mon Collingwood”. Young girls are bouncing up and down in from of me crying “C’mon number 7”. Chips are flying everywhere as one forgets herself and is flinging her arms about wildly as her horse appears to the head of the field. An old man beside me is almost frothing at the mouth and punching his fist in the air, barking “Go on lad, fer Jasysus sake!”. I’ve forgotten which horse is mine, I’m so enjoying the crowd more than the race. I take a picture as the horses thunder past the finishing line below me, 8 straining, stretching, lunging muscular brown mares frozen in my eyepiece. I had my money on Bella Sophie. Naturally, She ambles home in Fifth, also enjoying the crowd more than the race.

Number 7 has won, Collingwood. My mothers horse. She has left to head home and put the dinner on and misses her big win. I head home for my dinner with one place win under my belt and twice my winnings spent on the four bottles of water I’ve drunk..